A Shared Vengeance
by Crystalrose7788
Summary: Once upon a time, in post-World War II U.S., two German turncoats, one hailed, one vilified, plot their revenge on each other. Sequel to "A Punishment For A Traitourous German Actress."
1. Reunion

**A/N: I do not own the characters to Inglourious Basterds. I do not make money doing this either. **

**This story is a sequel to "A Punishment for a Traitourous German Actress." It won't make much sense unless you read that one first. For just this chapter only it will be T but then it will switch to M for later chapters. Please review because I need a sense of reader interest in order to get these chapters written! I won't claim to be historically accurate with the dates of historic things but I will attempt to keep the characters in the mindset of 1940s society. My updates won't be as quick as with my first IB fanfic, but I can tell you that _reviews_**** will move it along much faster! ;)**

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A pair of large hands snaked around the slender neck, thumbs and tips of fingers touching as they united to form a snug circle. The hands were sweaty—but certainly it couldn't be due to uneasiness; it was because they were wholly unaccustomed to the warmer climate—yes, that was it. The neck was cool, its pulse shockingly slow and steady beneath its entrapment. As the fingers tightened their grip on the soft, smooth flesh of the woman's neck, she did not so much as flinch.

Hans Landa was taken aback.

From his position behind her, he stared at the dark chestnut hair, the shiny waves of it trapped under his hands.

Tension hung thick in the air, marred only by the distant cries of seagulls and various songbirds and the steady rumble of cars whizzing by, their inhabitants unaware of the scene unfolding behind the hedges that lined the backyard of the woman's home.

Suddenly his victim's voice, calm and melodic, sliced through the silence between them.

"You won't kill me."

* * *

Less than three months before this moment, his forehead smarting under the generic U.S. military hat pulled down over his still painful wound, Colonel Hans Landa received his Congressional Medal of Honor as promised him. He stood alongside Lieutenant Aldo Raine and Pvc. Smithson Utivich as the pale blue silk ribbons were placed around their necks, the gold star centered on their chests. Finally he was able to see that the United States military had _some_ kind of formality. He'd never seen Lt. Raine and Pvc. Utivich stand so still, Raine even going without that crooked smirk on his face.

As promised, he received his bit of land on Nantucket Island and had already received his first pension check. This was to be a new life, a new beginning.

His chin up, in proper military posture, Hans Landa saluted a thin, frail old man in a wheelchair, the President of the United States of America. So this was where his allegiance would lie—a country where he'd be hailed as a great military hero, a country that bragged of its freedoms. In a simple radio call, all his sins had been forgiven. And all he had to do on his end was not pick up a phone. He swallowed the chuckle before it could materialize as he watched President Roosevelt salute him back.

Though he had been instantaneously set for life, Hans Landa was not yet ready to settle down in his comfy Nantucket home and spend his days watching seagulls. He had some unfinished business with a certain actress. An actress who had escaped him, who had humiliated him in the process. An actress who had gotten the last word—at least, for the time being.

* * *

During the presentation of the Congressional Medal of Honor to Landa and the Basterds, thousands of miles away, Bridget von Hammersmark sat on her bed, tracing the scar of a bullet wound on her left calf. This had certainly not worked out the way she wanted it to. She would not be receiving any credit for her important role in Operation Kino. Worse yet, the Allies found it difficult to believe her story—they were somehow convinced that she was in fact a _triple_ agent. The Basterds themselves had sworn to their superiors that she had kissed Landa in the cinema lobby for no other reason than because she wanted to, because, as they claimed, "she definitely looked like she liked was she was doin'" and that "she an' him knew each other from before." How could she help that she was familiar with the infamous Jew Hunter? France was not a large country, and it was only a matter of time before the two famous individuals – famous, of course, for two completely different reasons – had to meet. It also didn't help her cause knowing that three Allies were killed in the tavern _she_ had chosen for the rendezvous point.

She stood up, walking over to the window. Outside she could see a lone palm tree positioned awkwardly between the two high-rises across the street, the only visible sign of the different climate. It was impossible to know what to do now. Before all the accusations had begun to fly, before she was considered to be a triple agent, she had jumped on a plane and flown to the United States with what money she had earned in her decade-long acting career. The money had been enough to purchase a decent home in the Hollywood Hills, a quite lovely home, save for its lack of a view. Here she planned to restart her career in American cinema, hoping for popularity reminiscent of the silver screen greats: Vivien Leigh, Hedy Lamarr, Greta Garbo, and Marlene Dietrich.

These accusations of treachery to the Allies made her a wanted woman. She would most likely have to return to Germany, a country she had betrayed for good reason. Her money supply was dwindling and she certainly couldn't apply for any acting jobs, lest she be recognized. If she wished to remain in America, she had to change her name, assume a new identity, and begin from square one. And so she did.

* * *

It was now October 1944, four months after the war with Germany had ended. The Japanese had surrendered the month before, their cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki now in ruins. World War II was over, and a hum of contentment was in the air throughout the United States. Both Landa and von Hammersmark, on opposite ends of their newly adopted country, could feel the countrywide teeming with satisfaction. Landa, however, would not be content until he had enacted his revenge on the woman who had humiliated him, the woman whose neck he held in an ironclad grip, the woman who had just now made a defiant remark, amazingly keeping her composure all the while.

"You won't kill me."

He blinked indignantly, echoing her words in his head. Had she actually said that?

He had tracked her down rather easily, tracing her papers to Hollywood, California, where she had purchased a house under her name—done before she was accused of triple agency. Though she had changed her looks—dyeing her hair a dark brown and putting on a bit of weight—as well as changing her surname to Haynesworth—_sounds quite like Hayworth, as in _Rita_ Hayworth, _he had mused—she stupidly had remained in the same house. Perhaps she had been planning to move once she scraped up enough money. If that was her goal, it was a goal that would never be realized.

Retaining his grip on her neck, Landa wrinkled his brow at her single matter-of-fact statement. This was ending tonight, whether or not she believed him capable of doing it. Was she really so presumptuous as to assume that he'd let her live merely because she got off on him forcing himself on her? For all her cleverness in evading his detection for her alleged _two_ years of double agency–he'd never forget the number—she had a _lot_ to learn. Of course, what she would do with this new knowledge would be limited, being as she'd be dead shortly thereafter.

"And what reason do you have to believe that?" he inquired in a silky voice, hands twisting about her neck with the same forceful grip as he moved to the front of her, where she had been half-reclining on a lawn chair, sunglasses reflecting the midday sun. With a quick jerk of his hands, he made her stand up before him, watching her almost trip over the lawn chair in the process. She remained completely silent in the process, not even uttering a gasp or a yelp. He glanced down at her feet, clad in tiny black and white polka dot heels. His own leather loafers were dampened by the well-manicured California grass, dark stains of water lining the outside of his shoes.

She was as tall as he, perhaps even slightly taller at the moment, being as he now wore flat shoes as opposed to the shiny patent leather boots he had been accustomed to wearing in Nazi-occupied France, boots which afforded him an inch and a half or so. Not only was she slightly taller than him at the moment, but she had gained about ten pounds since they had last met. Her skimpy polka-dotted sundress did not flatter her new figure—she had certainly not put the weight on in her bust. She must have been desperate indeed in her attempts to lay low, for her to dare betray her formerly enviable figure.

Her hair, a dark chestnut, hung in shiny waves around her tanned face and neck, her skin exposed in this region of the world to a higher intensity of sunlight than was usual in Europe. He could not see her eyes, hidden behind oversized sunglasses in a plastic tortoiseshell pattern frame.

She regarded him as well from behind the darkness of her sunglasses. Landa's hairstyle had been changed so that a large amount of hair flopped over his forehead, the hair hanging so low it grazed his eyebrows. It was a rather odd, albeit youthful look for him, and she wondered why he had done such a thing, when he had spent all the years she had known him sporting a more flattering, _sophisticated_ hairstyle. And as she looked at him now from her heel-aided vantage point, she realized that Hans Landa was far less intimidating out of his Nazi uniform; that was for certain. At the moment he was wearing a simple blue button-down shirt, a pair of trousers, and leather loafers—looking like any other U.S. civilian. There were no black patent leather boots, no hat with a grinning skull, no swastika to see—he was simply just another man.

She breathed out loudly, its sound like that of a sigh. Landa's eyebrows rose. Was she actually feigning boredom? He could picture her rolling her eyes behind the dark sunglasses, and fumed inside.

He wanted to watch her die, wanted to see the whites of her eyes as her eyes rolled back in her head, wanted tears to involuntarily spill down her cheeks as her air supply remained inaccessible just long enough for her to perish. He wanted to watch the surprise and fear in her eyes gloss over with death. She had dared defy him four months before, going so far as to completely humiliate him. She had gotten the last word, an impossibility where Hans Landa was concerned. And now she was acting as if he was an annoying neighbor catching her at a bad time—all the while his hands encircled her very neck! Yes, he would watch her die. His hands were busy at the moment; she'd have to oblige him.

"Take off your sunglasses," he commanded, no humor in his tone. There was a hesitation. From behind the reflection of her sunglasses, she looked at him. His face held no kindness, his lips drawn into a tight grimace, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. He had not even let her reply. Slowly her hand rose from where it had been hanging at her side, languidly making its way upward.

He couldn't help but consider, as Bridget remained ever so calm: was she going to try something else? If nothing else, why hadn't she screamed by now? Someone might be able to hear her, being as they _were_ outside. If anything, she looked completely bored by the encounter; had she expected this to happen?

Her hand continued to raise, her thumb and forefinger finally resting on the juncture of the frame and the hinge of her sunglasses. A grim smile on her face, she removed the sunglasses, lowering them to her side, completely ignoring the grip on her neck all the while. She stared directly at him, her pale eyes boring into his dark eyes, her expression not changing. Why did she believe he would not kill her?

"What is your answer to my earlier question?" he inquired, having switched to German, the first words that had been spoken in their native language during this encounter. She did not so much as flinch.

"You won't kill me because I'm pregnant," she replied in English, her accent impeccable.

A smile crept across his lips, soon blooming into a good-natured grin, a crescent of green able to be seen around the pupils of his amused eyes. So _that's _why she had put on some weight around her girth; she was pregnant. He glanced at her left hand, immediately noticing the absence of a ring. He looked back at her with the grin remaining, his twinkling eyes instantly judging her. _W__hore._

"Do you think that's going to stop me?" he replied in perfect English after a pause, the smile never wavering, teeth all out on display. His tone was so amiable, it could have been reserved for a congratulatory statement. "As I'm sure you're aware, I had ordered the executions of just about every helpless, pitiful person you can imagine, from the pregnant to the newborn. I find it incredible that you have actually assumed I won't do the same to you."

"I know what you did," she hissed. "But this is different."

"Ha ha ha!"

Landa couldn't help interrupting her with a short bout of laughter; her words were just too preposterous to him. Maybe she was planning on making him laugh himself into a stupor. She _was_ very good at making him do so, as he recalled being ever so amused by her_ twice_ that night—namely, by her claims of mountain climbing and of her being half-Jewish. Rather than fully crack up for a _third_ time in front of her, he forced himself to keep a low profile, an air of foreboding.

"Do you actually believe you're any different from them—merely because we _shared a moment_?" he asserted, adding a wicked sneer to his last few words. "You should not have put your life at stake for some imagined sentiments you believe will exempt you. It was far too easy to find you, _Bridget_; you should have made a better attempt at hiding from me."

His grip on her neck tightened for a moment, but her eyes did not react. The grim smile remained plastered on her face.

"I'm not hiding from _you_," she replied, her eyes cold, her mouth drawn into what appeared to be—_a smirk_?

He loosened his grip only slightly, a questioning look in his eyes. His smile took on the appearance of a lopsided grin, his teeth disappearing behind his lips.

"If that's so, who _are_ you hiding from?"

"I don't think that's any of your concern, Herr Landa," she retorted with a sneer. She watched his expression change to one a bit more sinister, the sparkle instantaneously disappearing from his eyes. Increased pressure was now being applied to her neck. She took a breath and held it, figuring that he would not travel all the way out here to kill her without finding out why she believed he wouldn't go through with it. He simply had to have the satisfaction of knowing. He opened his mouth to speak, as she barely stifled a knowing smile.

"It probably isn't... Though, even if it was—" He stuck out his bottom lip as he shook his head. "—I couldn't care less. However, there _is_ something I must know: namely, why you believe I'm going to spare you," he prodded, tone ever-so-polite. A neat little smile crossed his face. "Just for curiosity's sake, of course."

She lifted her chin up, looking him straight in the eye. She felt herself grip the sunglasses more tightly, putting her other hand upon her protruding stomach.

"It's yours."

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**A/N: So take note that this story will 'disappear' from the default page view (you know, the standard K-T rating) once the second chapter goes up! It will be a solid M and will not be for the faint of heart! Please leave me feedback so I have the encouragement to write, and write more quickly at that! **


	2. Pride and Presumption

**A/N: Thank you to those who are following along, and to those who reviewed. It really helped me push this chapter out much more quickly than I originally figured it'd be written. I had figured it'd take me a month, so your feedback really does make a difference.**

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"It's yours."

As the final syllable of Bridget von Hammersmark's declaration silenced itself on her lips, Hans Landa's eyes widened, mouth slightly opening in the process. Once he was aware that he had reacted to her statement in such a way, Landa attempted to disguise it by grimacing. With all the countless women he had slept with over the years, he had used condoms, which were certainly not in short supply to all German military personnel. In assuming that she'd be dead shortly after his lust was satiated, he had not bothered to employ one with Bridget von Hammersmark.

Him, a father? In his career-minded life, he had not considered the possibility. Sex for him was for the power-induced pleasure and nothing more. Why had he failed to kill her that night in the cinema? Life had just become much more complicated for him—but only if he accepted this new fact. Otherwise, this declaration was merely a ruse to prevent him from exacting his revenge. It was plausible. This was an _act_ress in front of him, a double agent no less, claiming to be carrying his child.

But then again, even if she was pregnant, how could she be certain it was his? She definitely got around, and it would be no surprise if she'd slept with several men in the last couple of months. What if the new thickness of her waistline was due to a cleverly stowed pillow? Based on her penchant for telling bad lies, anything was possible. The odds were against his being the father--yet it was a definite possibility.

"Do you take me for a fool, Fraulein?" he questioned in a strained voice, retaining his hold on her neck. His grip tightened for a moment, hazel eyes briefly taking on a madness that frightened her. When he spoke again his voice was a menacing growl. "Answer my question."

"It's yours," she repeated assuredly. "You didn't use a condom, remember?"

Looking at her face, her pale blue eyes hidden behind the sunglasses but her perfectly straight nose still visible, her high cheekbones, slightly sunburned cheeks, and her thin upper lip untouched by lipstick. Oddly enough, his thoughts strayed to considerations of what her child might look like. Would it inherit her cheekbones? A daughter would be far more appropriate for her to have, for if a son were to inherit her particular features, he'd be far too pretty.

He shook his head dumbly, attempting to clear his thoughts of such schmaltzy garbage, instead reverting to remembering that evening. Such fluffy thoughts as the child's appearance were not becoming of _any_ man, let alone a former Nazi Colonel. He had a reputation to uphold, if only in his mind.

He thought of that impromptu encounter in the cinema office, her attempts to escape thwarted again and again until at last he had flung her up against the desk and shoved himself against her protruding backside, yanking her evening gown up over her back and letting her have it. Had he been more welcomed, he would have liked to have admired that creamy derriere, its supple skin marred only by the presence of red palm prints, _his_ palm prints from where he had spanked her over his knee. He would have held his hands upon her backside, feeling the heat emanating from it, the gooseflesh that would appear as his cool palms moved over the hot flesh, squeezing it between his fingers. Even though he had not been able to focus his attention on her perfect derriere that evening, he _was_ able for the first time to stare unabashedly into Bridget von Hammersmark's eyes and to admire her features without her averting her eyes as she did in every previous encounter—moreover, to see parts of her he had always wanted to look upon.

His hunger for her had been insatiable that evening, a feeling that had overcome him in a way he had never experienced. As never before, the lust racing between his brain and loins verged on animalistic and so he fittingly planned on taking her on all fours, but it ended up being over the desk. _Oh, I could never forget the view of Fraulein von Hammersmark, bent over to receive—_

"Please remove your hands from my neck," she suddenly commanded, her voice louder and more forceful. She had been watching his subtle changes in expression, his strange head-shaking and naughty little ghost of a grin playing across his lips as he stood before her in silence. His steady hold on her neck was beginning to unnerve her, her confession not eliciting the expected effect. Perhaps he needed to be snapped back to reality before he would reconsider any rash action. To strangle someone was so very gut wrenching—such a gruesome thought for one's own hands to be the sole cause of death.

Her mouth again closing after her statement was made, she did not bother to pull Landa's hands off of her; rather, she dropped her hand off her pregnant belly, the other hand still clutching her sunglasses with a death grip. She hoped he couldn't feel her uneasiness at the moment, not having considered the possibility of him killing her after knowing this information, but then again, he _did_ have fewer morals than the average man, if his career and his rape of her were any indications of it. How presumptuous she had been!

Suddenly Landa had been shocked back to reality, and he wasn't too happy about it. Oh yes, Bridget von Hammersmark was claiming to be carrying his child. But… _why?_

"Why didn't you rid yourself of it?" Landa spoke, his voice a harsh whisper. She stared at him incredulously, noticing his wrinkled brow, the deep creases around his mouth. Landa knew full well that abortions were both illegal and dangerous and yet was curious as to why she didn't have one anyway. Why should she be willing to carry _his_ child for nine months if she could find some money-hungry doctor who'd end its existence professionally?

"As _you_ can certainly relate, Mister Landa," she said bitterly, adding a pause, "I will do anything to avoid death—which would have been a very real possibly if I chose to rid myself of it," she replied matter-of-factly. "It's not what you would call a safe procedure."

Landa half-frowned at her, obviously unsatisfied with her statement and her intentional drop of his official title of _Colonel_ with such a commonplace, _American_ address. And what nerve it took for her to accuse him of doing anything to avoid death!—not that it wasn't true, of course. Noticing his irritability, she continued to explain, though with much less confidence.

"Besides, if you _were_ to seek me out, my carrying your child should—"

"Tsk tsk, Fraulein," he interrupted. She promptly shut her mouth, feeling a shadow of a cloud settling over her, enveloping her in cool shadow, though Landa remained in the sunlight. Landa paused a moment, looking completely satisfied with the situation as he thoughtfully bit his smiling lower lip, before continuing. "Based on that assumption, you really don't know me very well at all…."

His smile instantly disappeared, an indentation in his jaw emerging as he gritted his teeth. The colored part of his eyes turned black. Her breath caught in her throat independently of his steady grip on her neck. He leaned towards her smilingly, his mouth in his characteristic lopsided smirk.

"I offer my condolences for your ill-conceived pregnancy," he murmured, his lips almost grazing her face. "But that doesn't pardon you. Farewell, Bridget." The hair on his forehead close enough that it tickled her skin, he glanced downwards at what was presumably her bump, his face positively glowing. "Bye bye baby. A shame you have to suffer for the sins of your mother."

He looked up at Bridget, his smile taking on a new level of devilishness when paired with his earlier sentiments, and spoke again to his victim.

"You're only a step from being Catholic; would you say I'm saving your baby from _original_ sin, is it?"

The look falling upon Bridget's face was that of pure horror. Oh, why hadn't she thought to bring her 0.38 special outside with her as she sunbathed? She could have ended this encounter before it had even begun. She had figured if Landa had ever chosen to track her down, that he'd allow her to live once he discovered she was carrying his child. Instead, he was actually _mocking_ the fact that he was going to kill his own progeny!—which of course meant she would die as well.

Without giving her any time to answer—not that he was expecting an answer anyhow—Landa leaned away from the shadows that had settled over her, the smirk remaining, his eyes glittering in the restored sunlight of his position. There was a moment of thick silence in which Bridget felt her heart stop for what seemed like ten seconds, an absolute absence of air between them.

She was soon aware that his thumbs were digging into her throat, completely obstructing her air supply. His hands tightened around her neck like a noose, the coarseness of his hands like sandpaper as he gripped the flesh tighter and tighter. She cursed herself for not having taken one last deep breath. Her jaw dropped, eyes going wide with sheer terror, as she stared into his glittering eyes, noticing his bared teeth as he squeezed tighter and tighter. How could she have been so foolish as to assume that this man had any kind of morality about him? Her pregnancy had made her complacent, had made her presume she'd be safe from the unspeakable evils that lie within Landa's eyes. She never in a million years thought she'd be fighting for her life, but here she was, helpless at the hands of Hans Landa.

He had triumphed. He had gotten the last word. She had underestimated his ruthlessness and now she would pay. Forgetting her pride now, she wished she could surrender to him, give him time to reconsider, but it was so very hard to speak, to breathe….

* * *

His face reddening, the veins of his forehead protruding from exertion, Landa continued to crush Bridget von Hammersmark's throat, feeling the rigid bulges of her windpipe, the deep red thumbprints he left in her skin. She was bug-eyed, her pupils like pinpricks, eyebrows as high as they could possibly go as she attempted to escape, to make herself fall to the ground, both to no avail. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, ever-increasing in volume and speed, until she was certain her brain would explode from the pressure.

Moments of her life rapidly swept through her brain, appearing for an instant and then disappearing. _Her parents at Christmas, handing her a soft oddly shaped package--a blonde doll that had quickly become her favorite. Her brother, pulling her braid out of her knitted cap as they played in the snow. Her first kiss, at age 14--the neighbor boy with the crooked teeth and the chapped lips. A blissfully romantic dinner with her first love_--she couldn't recognize the face, though, the face surrounded by a halo of dark curls—_in Paris_, she thought; _wasn't that the Eiffel Tower in the distance?_ Oh, God, what was happening to her? _Strutting down the red carpet arm in arm with—was that her father?_ The face was blurred. Time was running out; the colors were fading fast. Faces became smeared; a fog settled over her mind's eye of her life; her memories were being taken from her, one by one. She was dying.

As her memories spun about her dimming mind, she opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, jamming her plastic sunglasses into Landa's hand as she struggled to make him remove his hands from her throat. He was too close for her to attempt to knee him in the groin, and her mercilessly stomps onto his feet were met with mere throaty chuckles from the strangler. It was as if nothing fazed him—he could feel no pain.

When the sunglasses broke into tiny plastic pieces on the grass, she reverted to mindlessly clawing at his hands, digging her nails into his knuckles. Though she was successfully attacking his knuckles, now bleeding thick crimson drops both onto the sleeves of his shirt and onto the neck of her sundress, he could not feel any pain, for he was too far-gone by this point. Pain could not stop him from exacting his revenge—besides, these varied weak attempts at fighting him off were like brushes of a feather compared to the torturous procedure Aldo Raine had performed on his forehead in the forest. Nothing would stop him from silencing her for good.

He held fast as he kept his eyes on her bluing face, noticing a spot of hemorrhaging around the pale blue of her eyes; it would soon be over. With her final store of strength in her dying body she shoved herself into him, her belly pushed against his own, eyes rolling back into her head.

He felt Bridget's firm flesh press into his abdomen, and with her belly shoved flush against him, he felt an independent nudge from within the bulge of her abdomen—a shove as if from a tiny flailing foot. _That's _not_ a pillow_. The baby was dying as well, flailing about as it suffocated in its own way. His only progeny. A boy or a girl nestled in the confines of this woman's womb, a potential son or a daughter growing inside of her. A thought suddenly struck him, his hairs standing on end: he had let the Jewish girl live, but not his own child?!

Landa's hands immediately went slack on his victim's neck, but Bridget von Hammersmark had since fallen unconscious and began to topple backward, her eyes open and unblinking. His heart thudding in his chest from the rush of adrenaline in his system, Landa shot out his hands, this time grabbing her shoulders and pulling her towards him. She fell into him like a sack of potatoes, limp and devoid of life.

A couple more adjustments followed of his handle on the cargo, and in less than a minute Landa was carrying Bridget von Hammersmark in his arms as he tromped toward her house, a modest redbrick ranch-style home. She was rather heavy, a dead weight in his arms, and so was difficult to position correctly. During his trek he stumbled several times, cursing his inappropriate footwear each time. Her footwear, on the other hand, was missing. He had left her polka dot heels behind in the grass. All anger had left Hans Landa's face, replaced with a tight-lipped grimace of concern.

He crossed the threshold with his limp cargo, stepping into her living room. In any other situation he would have taken in the sights and smells of a home to detect minute clues of any _hidden_ guests or merely to learn about its inhabitants, but he was in a hurry and had to ignore his instincts. He did happen to notice that the rug covering a large percentage of the wood floor was a deep burgundy and completely devoid of any pattern, a plain rug he could have seen himself buying. The furniture was also quite simple: a black vinyl sofa and recliner, a cheap-looking end table with a cheap-looking coffee table to match. Certainly not the lifestyle of the rich and famous. A pack of cigarettes and a newspaper sat on the coffee table. There was a rather beautiful radio cabinet crafted of mahogany against the wall, the dials polished and shining like gold, its glass panels smudge-free and practically transparent. From it the relaxed jazz chords of _Stardust_ floated, the bass rich and treble devoid of tinnyness. She certainly took pride in this possession. Evidently she listened to this radio a lot, to splurge on such an expensive item. He wondered if she listened to the news; perhaps she'd heard of his being awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. With half a smirk on his lips at the thought of her fuming over the news, he glanced down at her. However, at the sight of her, the smirk quickly faded into a grimace.

For all intents and purposes, Bridget von Hammersmark looked dead. Her skin was an unnatural shade of gray, trumping any tan she had acquired since moving to California. Her chest did not rise and fall, and he could not see a pulse in her neck, which he suspected should be quite fast at this point—if she had survived the attack. Most telling was her eyes, wide open with surprise and rolled back in her head, the only color visible a sliver of pale blue marred with angry red tendrils of hemorrhaging.

Hans Landa moved quickly through the living room and down a narrow carpeted hallway, pushing his way into the final door he encountered: the bedroom, he had presumed. He was correct. With great care he lowered Bridget von Hammersmark's body onto her sprawling mattress, and then immediately turned on his heel and left the room.

Within moments he returned with a handful of water, which he poured over her forehead. She didn't stir. He slapped her face. No response; not so much as a blink. Frowning, he put his ear down onto her chest. Silence. He peered down at her, at her gray skin, her lifeless eyes and blue lips, the look of horror on her face. Suddenly, a cold sweat seemed to be gushing out of his every pore, streaming down his face, down his throat as he observed her lifeless state. Not taking his eyes off her, he used a clammy hand to wipe off his face, his fingers inadvertently brushing over the hidden scar on his forehead. An unfamiliar sensation overcame him and he swallowed several times as he stared off into space, pondering what this sensation could mean.

He had traveled here for the sole purpose of killing Bridget von Hammersmark, the traitorous German actress who had dared humiliate him. He had accomplished his goal, doing so with minimal effort _and_ while retaining the element of surprise—so why did he suddenly feel sick to his stomach?

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**A/N:** **Please leave me feedback so I have the encouragement to write, and write more quickly at that! I apologize for the lack of steaminess in this chapter, but you can be assured it will be set up properly before I delve into it! Anyway, I did change the rating to M for the violence. If you are watching out for this fic, it won't be in the default view, as you already realize... Thanks again!**


	3. Crushing Roses

**A/N: Thank you to the reviewers and the readers who are following along with this story. I'm really thankful for the interest. It makes me so happy to go to my author page and look at the hits and statistics on this story! By the way, I mention two songs in this chapter, and if you by any chance have those songs, it may increase the readability of the scene(s) once I mention the song to listen to the song until I mention the next one! I listened to them while I was writing the chapter because it sets the mood--I don't know how to explain it, but it made it much easier to write. However, I doubt that most people will have the songs I mention in their possession...**

* * *

It made no sense for Hans Landa to be sickened over death. He alone was responsible for the deaths of hundreds, deaths that he took in stride without so much as a nightmare to remind him of the horrors he had unleashed upon so many innocents—let alone an immediate feeling of nausea!

He had ordered families to die—watched as families were gunned down right in front of him—through floorboards, through walls, even point blank. Children's cries being cut short as they were executed, their little bodies thudding on the floor. Screams, pleas for mercy, prayers in German, French, Hebrew… sometimes even English—ending abruptly with a hail of gunfire. Innocent eyes glazed over with death that stared blankly at him as he strode away from the bodies, the heavy heels of the Nazi boots the only sound to be heard; this was the true substance of nightmares. Yet here he was, having murdered a woman with his bare hands—a woman he knew had deserved it, a woman who had directly defied him—and his body was betraying him with pangs of nauseous remorse.

_The trash can_!—he leapt for it, landing on his hands and knees before his stomach promptly emptied its contents into the pail. His head swam, temples throbbing as he felt the rivulets of sweat snaking down his clammy reddened face, feeling another wave of nausea coming on strong. He couldn't move—instead remaining on the floor on all fours, his head hanging over the trash can. Letting out a groan of disgust over his own weakness in the matter, he again became sick, feeling utterly miserable as he then wiped off his chin. With that, he had been drained of all enjoyment of a job he looked forward to finishing for four months.

Sighing with disgust, he glanced up at the mattress, noticing the grayish tint to Bridget von Hammersmark's legs, which had been draped over the bed. Ignoring his nausea, he stood up haltingly, steadying himself on the mattress as he held the trash can, its contents sloshing about grotesquely.

He was now standing above her, looking down at her unblinking form, her body motionless. She looked much like a porcelain doll, save for the ugly purplish marks of strangulation about her neck. With a start, he raised the trash can to his mouth as soon as he again became sick. He had never been sick in such a way over anything but a tangible illness—and all happening in less than five minutes!

_What is wrong with me? This is what I wanted._

He glanced again at her, at her swollen abdomen. Was _it_ alive?

_Is there nothing I can do?_ he mused, using his bloodstained sleeve to wipe off his mouth. _Obviously I can't call a doctor. What else can be done?_

He then remembered a technique he had learned in his early days in the military, _artificial respiration_. He'd have to breathe into her mouth and press down on her breastbone to get her breathing and heartbeat back. She'd have to be moved off the bed, however.

Within moments he had positioned her body on the floor and began chest compressions on her, the jarring of them causing her limp limbs to shake about in a doll-like fashion. He sat back on his haunches, fighting wave after wave of nausea as he watched her bluish-gray face for signs of life.

Suddenly it occurred to him to rinse out his mouth, which he then did. But why? She didn't deserve special treatment in the mouth-to-mouth respiration, and yet, he felt obligated to do so. It was an odd feeling, as unfamiliar to him as the nausea. He returned quickly, realizing every second that she didn't breathe there'd be less chance for survival.

After five minutes of compressions and breaths, he had not elicited as much as a single voluntary movement from the body of Bridget von Hammersmark. He felt a wave of anger sweep over him, at his inability to quit strangling her before it was too late. He had spared a Jew but had killed his child and the mother of his child—_inconceivable!_

With a growl of rage, he lifted his fist, bringing it sharply down in the center of Bridget's chest. His anger dissipating at the lack of response, he became lost in thought. Could doing something like that work? With a reluctant sigh, he placed both his hands on her chest, leaning his entire upper body onto his hands, repeating this several times. She didn't move.

But was it not possible that her heart could be beating so faintly that his human ear could not hear it—a heartbeat in the absence of a breath? He hastily pulled himself to his feet and retreated to the kitchen, finding a thick plastic funnel in her cabinet. When he returned to the room he promptly knelt down on the floor beside her, placing the funnel over her heart and his ear over the spout. Within half a minute he sat back up, looking perplexed but deep in thought.

Was that a heartbeat?

He leaned back down once more with his makeshift stethoscope. Faint, slow—but there! She was alive!—though barely. He lifted his head, looking incredulously at her face. Her eyes were still open, only the whites exposed. With utmost care he lifted his hand over her face, gently closing her eyelids.

But was she breathing? She hadn't moved or taken a large gulp of air after he had administered the breaths, but that didn't necessarily mean she wasn't breathing.

He returned quickly with a hand mirror, holding the mirrored side to Bridget's mouth. He waited, the seconds ticking by. A tiny puff of condensation. He waited a bit longer. Another puff of fog on the mirror. Yes!

A smile grew across his face, his expression one of pure relief, as he leaned back onto his haunches, watching her with a rare tenderness. He never expected to be so happy to see a victim survive, and yet here he was, feeling a rush of delight as he looked upon the unconscious mother-to-be.

* * *

Bridget von Hammersmark had seen the blindingly white tunnel as it became larger and larger, filling her entire field of vision, her mother and father materializing before her eyes, her long-dead grandfather still wearing that silly hat she used to tease him about—and then being yanked away as the light faded. It was all she could think about as she lie flat on her back, acutely aware that it was difficult to breathe and that her throat was sorer than it had ever been in her life. Even so, it was not the soreness that was felt with a flu or strep throat; it affected every level of her neck region, from the surface of her skin to deep beneath her jaw. Her chest and abdomen felt tight and cramped and her head throbbed from temple to temple, but it was her throat that held the brunt of the pain. She immediately thought of the being growing inside her, and moved a hand to clutch the swelling of her abdomen.

Comforted by the bulge still existing, she opened her eyes to gray darkness; adjusting her vision to what was most certainly the interior of her bedroom. She was in bed, though not clad in pajamas. She could hear a far-off sound; could it be that she had left her radio on? Blinking several times, she noticed that her eyes were sore and unusually dry.

She attempted to sit up, but couldn't, for it left her gasping for breath.

_What happened to me? It feels like I was… strangled, but if so, why would I be here?_

It was then that she turned her head to her left ever-so-slightly, met with the appearance of a brownish fabric protruding from the bedclothes, a line of brown that ran halfway down the bed ending with a shoe.

She looked to her immediate left, seeing what appeared to be the end of the brownish fabric, with a column of wrinkled blue fabric above it, and—turning her head back towards a more central position, saw the arms of the figure, the neck, the hair of the dangling head! It was then she saw the chin, the nose, the boyish lips of the man as slow, rhythmic breaths passed through them with a light _pffff_ sound.

Colonel Hans Landa! Landa was in her house! In her very bed! Now the pain made perfect sense! He had choked her!... But then, what was he doing sleeping next to her in her very bed? What the hell was he waiting for? For her regain consciousness so he could further torture her? Or was he currently in the process of waiting for her to die?

Forgetting about the pain that had constantly plagued her since she had regained consciousness, she reached for the 0.38 special beneath her pillow, pulling the hammer back with utter care. All the while she stared at Landa's eyelids, still solidly shut beneath a curtain of boyish eyelashes. His evil certainly betrayed his appearance. She felt a primal hatred stewing inside her. _Inhuman bastard. You tried to kill me and my child._ Her hands were weak from her earlier efforts and it was a bit of a chore for her to lift the heavy yet compact weapon onto her body. Once the gun was resting on her chest, her right hand—the hand furthest away from Landa's sleeping figure—fumbled to right the weapon, taking off the safety and aiming at the only thing she was capable of aiming at with her one weakened hand—namely, his upper thigh.

She knew the gun was loaded. She had put the bullets in the magazine herself almost four months ago, picturing the scenario as each bullet slid into the clip: Landa would find her, corner her, explain to her how and why her life would now end. She would tell him of the pregnancy—this godforsaken, unexpected pregnancy that made getting hired as an actress even more difficult, not to mention the looks people would give her at her unmarried status. She had even taken to wearing one of her own rings on her left finger when she was in public just to create the illusion of marriage.

Though the pregnancy was highly inconvenient, it was a bargaining chip, a way to gain the upper hand with Hans Landa. She would of course inform him that it was his child and he'd at first be incredulous, but after her reassurances he'd believe her and reconsider killing her. As he turned away to leave, she'd aim the gun right between his shoulders, loudly cocking the weapon as she did so. He'd probably turn around, startled, and look at her, eyebrows raised with confusion.

She'd then propose her deal: _you clear my name with the U.S. and British governments and I carry the baby to term. Otherwise, there's no telling what abortifacients I'll have to take in order to move on with my life._

She hated the idea that she'd be using her own flesh and blood as a bargaining tool, but if she were extradited back to Germany, that'd be no life she'd want her child to have. It was either a hero's name and a child here in America, or no child at all. She'd gunned down the defenseless new father that night at the tavern and slated her movie director and his wife for death via Operation Kino; Bridget von Hammersmark was not a tenderhearted woman. And now she wanted no more than to forsake her own plans and end Hans Landa before he could do her any more harm. She didn't need his help to begin a new life with a clean slate here in America.

There was no reason for her to let Hans Landa live. Her mind startlingly lucid, a grimace on her lips, she pulled the trigger.

* * *

The gunshot rang out in the small room, its sound deafening in the small space. Bridget couldn't help but involuntarily jerk as the pistol recoiled.

Landa, abruptly awakened, let out a throaty scream and fell off of the bed in a heap, landing on the carpeted floor with a loud thud. The bullet had certainly shattered his left thighbone to hell, and from the way his left leg also throbbed, it had passed through that leg as well. He was done for. He lie on the floor by the bed, biting on his bottom lip so forcefully that it bled, his breaths coming out in choked sobs.

He decided that he wouldn't fight it if she decided to end it with another shot; the pain he felt was unbearable to the point of him wishing himself dead, a torturous pain as horrible as the pain from that day in the forest—the day he had been given his mark by the Basterds. He'd underestimated Bridget von Hammersmark and now was paying for that mistake.

Though, how had he ended up in such a vulnerable position in the first place, falling asleep right beside her? Feeling his eyes well up involuntarily with tears at the utter pain, he shifted his body so that he was facing away from the bed and begin to think.

He had lifted her into the bed after he realized she was breathing, having rug-burned his raw knuckles on the bedroom carpet while snaking his hands beneath her body. Seeing the resultant blood on the beige carpet and ignoring it, he had washed and bandaged his knuckles in her bathroom and relieved himself. From her kitchen he had eaten a banana and some pre-peeled carrots she was probably preparing for a salad.

During that time, he couldn't help but stand around in her living room, listening to the easy jazz until the Mills Brothers came on. As he listened to the lyrics, a wave of nausea again resurfaced but he overcame it.

_You always hurt the one you love_

_The one you shouldn't hurt at all_

_You always take the sweetest rose_

_And crush it till the petals fall_

Her near-death wasn't his fault. Why had she been so defiant? Why had she not simply surrendered, begged him for mercy, fallen at his knees? Yes, it was her own fault, her own false confidence that had led to her being strangled.

* * *

The song, though extremely popular in the states, irritated him to no end. Before the war, in Austria; that was when he was in love—ehh, more like infatuation. But no longer. Every weekend that a Bridget von Hammersmark movie was playing, he'd bring a new date. During Bridget's scenes, he'd forbid his date from chomping on popcorn or slurping the drink. It had to be silent.

And later on that evening, beneath the sheets, sometimes he'd even picture the woman with him to be Bridget von Hammersmark herself. He'd caress the curves, his fingers and mouth working their magic on the woman until she'd cry out, her sweaty body tensing and relaxing under an entanglement of sheets, toes and fingers clenching as she moaned his name. "Hans, Hans! Oh, Hans!"

All the while he'd emotionlessly continue his mission, picturing Bridget's mouth forming the statements, her ruby red lips moving along his body as he moved away, smoothly and expertly applying a condom just before the woman could get a release. Having mastered foreplay with his subjects, he'd then get his reward—his face still expressionless, perhaps biting his lip with concentration, he'd roughen up the situation in a hurry: promptly unfastening his date's garters, ripping the woman's undergarments down off of her legs, and then ravaging her until he was spent.

He had been commissioned by the Nazis for a singular, sinister purpose: to hunt Jews. He attained the rank of _Sturmscharführer_ in less than six months, rising quickly to the rank of _Standardtenführer_ in another half a year due to his ability to do his job to perfection—essentially, because he never let emotion or morality cloud his judgment. He had a knack at relating to the survival instincts of his intended victims, finding individuals and families as easily as if he had hidden them himself.

The immorality of his job didn't bother him, for the perks were far better. Good pay, lots of sex, and the respect he'd always wanted. Another perk of his high status was that he was able to rub elbows with famous Germans.

Germany's sweetheart Bridget von Hammersmark had become even more popular with the advent of the war. She was, in a word, perfect—a blonde, blue-eyed unmarried Gentile with an abundance of grace, class and humility not expected of someone so in the public eye. The budding infatuation of his pre-War days did not relent, blossoming to the point that he'd actively seek her out in high class social gatherings of which he was an invitee.

When they'd first met, he'd introduced himself to her as Standardtenführer Hans Landa, Waffen-SS, and she'd responded with a humble little bow of her head, an extended blink. It was then that he had delicately taken her glorious hand in his own, his lips turning to fire where they kissed the flesh. And when he looked back up at her, he could almost swear she returned the sentiment. Her smile wasn't exactly a friendly smile—it hinted at something more. It was as if her eyes were drinking him in, but that her mouth wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to be doing—teetering between discomfort, friendliness and outright desire. His imagination was not one to run wild, but here his idol was, in front of him, being a bit more than polite in his opinion. He was an expert at reading people, and this woman was not merely being friendly—she was attracted to him so much as to be a bit unnerved by the encounter, for she was _certainly_ unnerved.

And if his toothy megawatt smile and sparklingly pleased eyes were any indication; he was certainly not disappointed by her.

* * *

The song continued to play on the radio, though he had all but phased it out during his reverie. With a grumble he unraveled his sleeve and opened the glass door, turning the tuning knob to a classical music station, hearing the swellings of strings mixed with light woodwinds. _Ah, the Adagio movement of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major.… _He had grown up on this music, the music of a fellow Austrian, a musical prodigy at that. With all his faults, musical taste was not one of them.

Feeling overcome by the familiar melody, Landa reclined back on Bridget's sofa, closing his eyes as the clarinet solo began. The support given to the clarinet by a seamless set of strings was enough to elicit a sigh. Such a soft, peaceful feeling it gave, a calming aura that made him smile. It wasn't an unabashedly joyous song by any account; it was to him as if one individual, in smiling at a rather hopeless situation, altered the perceptions of the rest, convincing them to make good of the situation. It was almost enough to make him laugh. The atmosphere of the music so pleasing and harmonious, so all-encompassing, while a bruised and battered woman lay unconscious in the next room. A smile spread over his lips. He so loved irony.

After listening to the music for a minute or so longer, he had then returned to her bedroom, squatting down so that her chest was at eye level as he watched it rhythmically rise and fall.

As he now lie in utter agony on her bedroom floor, a piercing thought ran through his head: why had he not checked for any weapons then? Did he really presume that a double agent wouldn't have any weapons at her disposal?

Maybe it was her appearance, her angel-like innocence in sleep that swayed him from his usual method of search and seizure. An angel didn't need weapons, especially an angel as beautiful as the one lying before him. An angel he had punished severely, he noted, for encircling her neck was a rather symmetrical necklace of ugly black and blue finger prints, the vicious bruises extending towards the collar of her dress, which had been spattered with blood from his knuckles. Her skin was no longer grayish or bluish in tint; rather, gaining a slight pink tone from the blood flow that had been restored to it. Her lips and eyes were devoid of all makeup, pale and natural, the only sign of life on her face a mere blush of color to her cheeks. To Landa gazing down at her, she looked just like Juliet awaiting Romeo in the Capulet crypt.

Having noticed no change about her, Landa crossed to the other side of the bed, ever so gently taking a seat on the pillow next to hers. With a grunt he kicked off his loafers and leaned his body against the backboard, now focusing his gaze on her swollen belly. There'd be no way to tell if it was alive—the only sign of its death would be a gush of blood from below. His nausea had only just ended; he'd check later. It was then that he'd inadvertently fallen asleep--a dire mistake on his part. The woman beside him may well have been as sweet as a rose at first glance, but she certainly had thorns and was not afraid to brandish them.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the unforewarned bit of background in this story. So far I've been setting this story up to be more than current actions and flesh it out a bit more than my last IB story. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! I'm trying to decide if I want more on the spot, current actions and feelings oozing in details (like the last story) or a story with some background flashbacks and setup before any real nitty-gritty pours into the story… But what do you prefer? One or the other? A combination of both? Neither? Your feedback can make this story more tailored to reader needs because I don't want my story to be difficult or boring to read. If you by any chance had either of the above-mentioned songs, did you listen to them and did they alter the chapter in any way? I think it's kind of cool to set up an audio mood at the same time your mind sets up a picture of each scene as the chapter progress. I dunno, that's just how I perceive it...**


	4. Blood

**A/N: So now that the movie will be released in the U.S. on Dec 15, I've found myself thinking about it again... I need to get reacquainted with the characterizations once I buy the film, but hopefully until then this chapter will not allow Landa or Bridget to become OOC! **

* * *

Her breath coming in disturbingly loud uneven bursts, Bridget haltingly shifted her body towards the edge of the bed where Landa had fallen. Her face felt hot and overexerted; he must have crushed something in her throat for her to feel so very out of breath already. The struggle to breathe was not yet over.

It was then that she looked down upon Hans Landa, who was lying on his side, legs perfectly straight. Blood gushed from the wound on his thigh, a blackish bubble of it arising from the center of the wound, spilling over like a volcano and soaking his trousers. Around the wounded leg was an ever-growing crescent-shaped pool of dark crimson. She'd probably shot a major artery.

She cocked the weapon, hand shakily aiming over the edge of the bed. He had rolled far enough way that he would not be able to reach her pistol. The metallic thunk of the weapon cocking elicited a reaction from Landa, who after the initial flinch (or was it a shiver?), flipped onto his back with a pained grunt. His eyes were shut tightly, but within a moment they had opened and were looking right at her, heavy eyelids indicating to her his fearlessness. His mouth was twisted into a grimace, and each breath he expelled through his nose sounded as if it caused him pain.

Bridget watched his Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallowed loudly, the crescent of blood expanding outwards from his blood-soaked thigh. He was losing a lot of blood and would probably be dead soon, even if she didn't fire a second shot. How was she going to get the body out of the house unnoticed? She could barely breathe, let alone manage to lug a heavy body undetected by her neighbors.

Though he had initially looked directly and unflinchingly into her eyes, Landa's eyes soon wandered downwards almost self-consciously as he took several halting, strained breaths.

It was an odd picture: Bridget von Hammersmark, lying on the bed, her breathing loud and labored, gaping down at a bloodied Hans Landa flat on his back on the floor, his breathing also strained. The distant strains of another Mozart piece from the radio were all but completely buried beneath the sounds of their labored breathing, a word not passing between them.

Before Landa was to die either by blood loss or by a second gunshot, Bridget had to know something.

"Why were you in my bed?" she rasped in English, her voice frighteningly harsh, punctuated by choked breaths as she stared down at him. She had initially intended to speak in German, but there were fewer words to speak in English, and it was difficult simply to get enough air.

His eyes again moved to her face, and she decided that he didn't look so fearless any more. In light of the fact that he was dying, his arrogance was dying as well. His body was now subtly shaking, much like a violent shiver. Would he explain himself before he died?

"I changed my mind," he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

"About what?" She began fanning her face with her free hand, attempting to force some air into her mouth. It was as if she was still being strangled, though much more gradually, a noose tightening slowly around her throat.

"You."

Her face twisted with confusion.

"What?"

"Either end this—" he muttered, rolling his eyes, "or call a doctor."

"Why should I? I think you deserve to suffer," she hissed, gasping for breath, "for… all that you've done."

"You need a doctor."

She was taken aback. Did he not believe he needed a doctor as well? Why would he encourage her to call a doctor for herself? Perhaps he was under the assumption that he wasn't going to make it. But then, why the sudden empathy?

It was then that upon looking again at him, Bridget noticed a rather disfiguring scar on his forehead peeking out from under his differently-styled hair.

"Where'd you get that scar?" she rasped, momentarily lifting the pistol to enforce the question.

"That doesn't matter. How will you explain this?" he countered irritably, looking about himself, his breaths becoming shallower and shallower. "We both need—a doctor."

"As if you should live," she snarled. As soon as she ended speaking, she was overcome with an agonizingly painful coughing fit in which she clutched her neck, gasping for breath. Once her coughing spell had ended, he again spoke.

"Fine. But then, when they come for you, they'll find… this," he murmured, indicating his wound, his body. "Aren't you already in hiding?"

It was infuriating that he should remember every bit of every conversation they had shared. It figured—for a man to be a good listener, an amazing retainer of information and facts, he had to be a people hunter, a hired murderer. Had he a common job with no underlying evil intentions, his looks, charm, and information retention would have been the makings of the ultimate husband. But here he was, about to die and for good reason.

It was quite the dilemma he had pointed out to her. She was a wanted woman, one who had had to change her identity to avoid backlash from the very country she had been faithful to for years. If she should let him die here on her bedroom floor, she'd have to figure out some way of getting to the doctor, which itself demanded some sort of explanation—who had strangled her, and why? Likewise, a dead body would draw undue attention to her. Certainly the body would begin to reek after only a day or two, but how was she to move it, a pregnant woman in her second trimester with a pathologic new shortness of breath? She wouldn't be able to, especially if she wanted to do so without arousing suspicion—and even though she and her child might survive all this, she'd most likely live out her days in prison, having killed a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient and World War II hero. Ugh, she wanted to spit at the vileness of the mere thought of him receiving an award for his cowardice.

Even so, she had no choice. He had to stay alive for the time being, if only to be taken outside of her home.

"A robber."

Bridget gaped down at Landa, whose face was as white as a sheet, his lips eerily pale and faded.

"What?"

"A robber… strangled you and shot me," he muttered, voice thick. "Do you have any… valuables?"

"Yes, just jewelry—rings and things, but—"

"We are married."

Her head spun until it felt like she'd lose consciousness. So essentially he was vindicating the both of their acts against the other in order to see a doctor. Her, pretending to be married to an opportunistic Nazi coward. It made her want to vomit.

"You need to make it look like a robbery. Hide some jewelry."

"Colonel Lan—"

He frowned at her, though his features showed a kind of strange peace about them.

"Hans. Please."

"No," she blurted, her voice stronger than before. "This is what got me discredited with the Allies: their believing I was with you. I'm not doing it."

"John then. Here," he said, reaching into his bloodsoaked trouser pocket and pulling out a thick square of leather, "—my wallet. Hide it. They won't know who I am. Just call them."

When she hesitated to move or accept his wallet, he spoke again, obviously agitated, his voice stronger though his face still frightfully pale.

"I think it's best you call them before I die, or else you'll have no way to explain this," he huffed. "You wouldn't want your child to grow up in an orphanage, _ja_?"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at having to follow any kind of instruction from him. With her free hand she reluctantly took Landa's wallet, damp from blood, and slid towards the end of the bed, aiming the gun all the while.

Before he could ask her to call the doctor again, she picked up the handset of her phone and with the help of a nearby phonebook, used the rotary dial to ring the hospital.

As he lie on the floor, a trembling hand pressed against the gunshot wound, she painstakingly shuffled over to her jewelry box and opened it, sliding her fake wedding band on her finger and taking her expensive jewelry out to hide between her box spring and mattress. Her breaths became increasingly more ragged as she hid his wallet in a shoebox that she then stowed under her bed. For a moment she stood clutching her throat to catch her breath. It was as if her windpipe had been crushed to a third of its normal size and the ensuing sensation was utterly terrifying.

"Rest."

A frown appeared on her face at his request, and the urge to shoot the bastard on the floor became apparent once more.

"Don't you dare tell me what to do."

Still holding her pistol, her finger on the trigger guard, she stood at the end of her bed and peered down at him from a safe distance. He was alarmingly pale and breathing so shallowly now that she could not hear his breaths. Suddenly there was a knock at her door, which startled her from her looking at Landa.

"Hide the gun."

His voice sounded distant now, a soft, barely discernable murmur. Without delay she stowed the pistol in the shoebox with Landa's wallet then left the room to answer the door and to turn off the radio that was somehow now on the classical station.

* * *

Bridget was amazed at American hospitality. As she sat in a makeshift room in the emergency department of the hospital, a doctor prodding and examining her neck, she couldn't believe how fortunate she had been that due to their injuries, they were both taken from her home without question. The medical team had merely asked them of the extent of their injuries and quickly loaded the pair into an ambulance. The attending physician had heard her baby's strong, rapid heartbeat through a stethoscope. She couldn't help but smile at the thought that she and her baby would survive—and that Hans Landa would not, finally out of her life forever.

It was entirely possible that he wouldn't make it. Landa was faring far worse than she and had been wheeled away for surgery and a blood transfusion. She realized with glee that in his cleverness in faking their being husband and wife having been robbed by an outsider, that he'd neglected to consider that once he'd told his story to the paramedics, his life was expendable. No longer could Bridget be held responsible for his death—should he now die—because he himself had explained haltingly to the paramedics the convincing lie.

_She had been asleep while sunbathing outside, he lying down in the bedroom, when the robber had held her at gunpoint, leading her into the house. This of course explained the presence of the broken sunglasses and heels lying in the grass, for in her shock she dropped and stepped on her sunglasses, leaving her heels on the lawn as the robber held a gun to her. The robber demanded to know where her jewelry was. In fear for him, her sleeping husband, in the bedroom—the room where she kept her jewelry—she refused to tell the robber the location of her jewelry. With that, he began to strangle her, pulling her towards the bedroom. They entered the room as the robber continued to strangle her until she lost consciousness. That was when he had awoken and was promptly shot in the leg. When she came to, she found him bleeding to death and her jewelry gone._

"Don't overexert yourself for the next week or two." The doctor's voice cut through her thoughts. "Your trachea and larynx are severely bruised and inflamed and for several days it's going to be difficult for you to breathe."

"So nothing's broken or collapsed?"

"Luckily, no. It's fortunate that tracheas are made of cartilage and not bone because the robber would have surely broken bones in your throat, as hard as he squeezed your neck. I think you should stay overnight just to ensure everything is going to be alright. It's probably best you aren't home tonight, lest the robber returns. So, would you be willing to stay overnight?"

"Yes," she muttered, completely relieved that her throat hadn't been broken in some way. Landa had certainly been ruthless in strangling her. From the state he had been in the last time she'd seen him, she wouldn't doubt if he saw his life flashing before his eyes, and hoped each scene to be more horrific than the last.

* * *

**Please please please please please please review! Thanks again for your interest!**


	5. Willpower

Bridget's hospital room was dark, comfortable, and most importantly, silent. The other hospital bed in the room was empty as she lie under the thin sheets, an oxygen mask nearby in case she found it difficult to breathe during the night. The attending nurse was certain to point out the nurse call button which would light up a blue bulb on the outside of her room. For the first time in four months, she felt at complete peace.

She thought about her house, which presumably she'd left unlocked, being as the paramedics insisted upon bringing her out on a stretcher. Would someone take the opportunity to _genuinely_ rob it in her absence?

Well, it really didn't matter anyway. Her furniture was expendable, and she'd hidden most of her valuable jewelry. The only item she cared about in her entire home, as cheaply furnished as it was, was her prized radio. It was the only major piece of furniture she had brought with her from Germany, a gift from her parents after her first film had been released. German radios were much better quality than the tinny and chintzy American radios, for this one had been built before the advent of the war and was constructed of top quality mahogany wood—in addition to having dials made of genuine gold.

Her thoughts drifted to the baby within her, the product of a brutal rape from a man who had today attempted to finish the job, as it were. What was she going to do now? She had shot Hans Landa, had watched him suffer on her floor—and hopefully soon they'd be giving her the news: that there was nothing that they could do for her so-called husband. She would not be spending her money burying him. If the U.S. military loved him so much for his contribution to ending the war, they could very well do it… Not that she'd be divulging his actual name, of course. His identification was as good as gone.

* * *

It was not long, however, before she was awoken from her sleep at the sound of metal striking wood. A gurney had struck the doorframe of her room door. Her eyes squinted open to the sight of a nurse pushing in a patient under a white sheet, the patient lying still under white hospital sheets.

"Guess what, Mrs. Haynesworth," the nurse murmured in the dark, "your husband's going to be alright!"

She was shocked beyond belief and couldn't hide her astonishment.

"What? How is that possibl—he was bleeding so—"

"Well, you can ask him that—here he is, though it may be awhile before he comes to. I hope you don't mind sharing a room with him, but I figured it'd be alright."

In the dark Bridget could see the nurse winking and suddenly felt the urge to gouge out her eye.

As the gurney swung around to be positioned parallel to the hospital bed next to her, she saw Hans Landa's peacefully sleeping face—and felt ill.

_Shit. He survived. _

After positioning the gurney properly, the nurse began to approach Bridget's bed.

"I hope you don't find this too nosy, but I have a question to ask you," the nurse explained in a worried whisper. She moved to a table near the foot of Bridget's hospital bed and turned on a rather noisy fan with metal blades, one that kept a study hum that overpowered speech at a normal volume. She returned with a sneaky little smile on her face.

"Your husband—John, is it?—well, he has a rather strange scar in the middle of his forehead."

"Yes?" Bridget pressed. She hadn't actually seen the entire scar, so hopefully the woman would reveal details of its appearance.

"It looks just like a swastika," the nurse murmured. "I can see it's not fresh—who did that to him?"

Bridget was barely able to stifle a smile as she stole a glance at Landa's still form. So the Basterds had left their mark on him. Perhaps they weren't as stupid as she first suspected. That explained the change in Hans's hairstyle. It was a fitting scar, to be sure.

Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by the nurse, who had a hand pointed in the direction of Hans Landa's bed as she whispered, excitement in her tone.

"Mrs. Haynesworth, is your husband a Nazi?"

* * *

Bridget's mouth threatened to break into an all-out grin, and she had to use every ounce of will power to keep her feelings inside her.

"I can't talk right now," she murmured quietly, her voice cracking. Though he appeared to be sleeping, Hans Landa was a master of deception.

The nurse was not satisfied with this statement. The fact that this woman was neither confirming nor denying this accusation was intriguing, to say the least.

"I assure you he won't be regaining consciousness for several hours at least. The ether won't be wearing off for a good while. You can tell me…."

"No, I can't," Bridget replied matter-of-factly, the temptation to turn him in right now very strong. But first, she had to return to her home and destroy his wallet and all identification. She wanted to be certain that the only thing marking him irrefutably would be the swastika; any link back to that damned Medal of Honor would be torched, short of the Medal of Honor itself.

"Please, just one word—yes or no," the nurse asked with a smile, her voice much more insistent now.

Bridget bit her lip.

"I'm sorry—I can't say," she murmured. "If you want to talk later I'd be happy to. Just not right now."

The nurse seemed perturbed by Bridget's reply. She crossed her arms defensively in front of her.

"Ma'am, I highly doubt there'll be any consequences for you, if that's what you're worried about. It's just—well, we've never seen such a scar. If you're afraid of getting in trouble, I can ask my neighbor if you want. He was a Staff Sergeant stationed in—"

"Please…. Later," she replied with a dismissive flick of the wrist.

The nurse checked on the motionless Hans Landa's cast and dressings and promptly left the room, disappointed that the woman hadn't confirmed what was strongly suspected. The man _did_ have a foreign accent, though it wasn't as heavy as one might predict. Hopefully his wife would divulge tomorrow. Though, was it possible that she could warn him of the impending questions, allowing him to make a hasty escape?

She halted for a moment in the hallway, considering as she glanced back at the closed door of the hospital room.

The man's right femur had been shattered by the bullet, but his left leg had superficial wounds that wouldn't greatly impede walking. Even so, he had just had major surgery on his leg and the pain and swelling would be intense. The hospital staff would be made immediately aware of when his anesthetic had worn off because there'd be moaning. She predicted that his pain would be intense and he'd have to be doped up on morphine until the swelling subsided, which would mean that he'd be in no condition to leave his bed, let alone leave the hospital. She returned to the nurse's station shrugging her shoulders. Her curious coworkers standing in the vicinity of the desk sighed with disappointment.

* * *

As the nurse closed the room door behind her, the vertical sliver of light from the hallway becoming thinner and thinner then altogether disappearing, Bridget sighed and adjusted the covers. She would be glad to tell the nurse of his past, just not right now.

Though the door was shut, a sliver of light existed under the door. Thankfully she was not in total darkness with the man who had only hours before tried to kill her. The fan's steady buzz drowned out any outside noise and served as a kind of white noise.

She thought about the situation. She couldn't very well turn Landa in with his given name because he had received the Medal of Honor under that name. No, she had to think of another high-ranking Nazi official that was infamous—and deceased. She couldn't be certain that everyone in the cinema had been obliterated, but there was one officer that was most certainly dead—Major Dieter Hellstrom. With the devastating death toll in Germany, that name would easily slip by the Americans, who would then dispose of Landa or at the very least extradite him back to Germany. Yes, Hans Landa would be no more—she would guarantee that.

Bridget von Hammersmark had to make Hans Landa pay. Not only had he raped and impregnated her, but he had cheated her out of the medal she so deserved for her long-term allegiance to the allies. She had imagined that after Operation Kino had been carried out she would be acting on the American silver screen under her given name, a famous heroine who acquired the meatiest Hollywood roles. Instead she was reviled, hiding under an alias, unable to find steady work, with a growing womb. Before she could close her eyes and attempt to sleep, she had to steal one more glance at the man who had completely altered the course of her life.

Landa's eyes were shut, his expression peaceful and unassuming, chest rising and falling with each smooth breath. The hair tumbling over his forehead had been rearranged so that his forehead was now exposed. The dim light streaming from under the door did not allow a view of the scar on his forehead. Bridget felt a surge of hope course through her veins. She simply had to see what the Basterds had done to Landa's face. Hopefully the scar was deep enough that removal of it would be forever impossible.

The hospital bed creaking ever so quietly, Bridget sat up and scooted her legs to the edge of the bed, holding her breath until her feet firmly touched the floor. She could feel the fan's breeze billowing her hospital gown, and tucked the thin fabric modestly behind her. She stood up shakily and shuffled over to Landa's bed, which was parallel to hers and a bed-length away.

She finally allowed herself to breathe again as she stared down at his face. The scar was disfiguring and very deep, making it so that any horizontal forehead lines would be wiped out. The lines of the swastika were surprisingly straight and yet the thickening of scar tissue seemed to be wider in some places and narrower in others. It was truly a hideous scar, regardless of it being the symbol of such a dark era. There was no confusing it with anything else; the swastika was unmistakable.

Landa's hands were out of sight, presumably resting under the white hospital sheets, his broken leg hidden underneath the coverings as well. This motionless, helpless man before her had attempted to murder her several times now. However, even if she had some kind of poison she could slip into his mouth, she wouldn't kill him. That kind of death would be too painless, too easy.

She muttered a curse in German, and then turned around to return to her bed, raring for the moment Landa's identifying papers were gone, when she could turn him in to the government as a fugitive Nazi. For now, she would sleep and regroup.

"What? No goodnight kiss?"

A hot spike of fear shot up her spine as she spun around to face the source of the voice. Landa was conscious, his mouth drawn up into a smile of complete satisfaction. Though his smile wasn't a toothy one, his cracked lips were now moist and rather pale in comparison with their usual appearance. Though his eyelids looked a bit heavy, he was most certainly awake. She flashed him a look of horror and trepidation, her intense fear of him causing her further anxiety.

"I now realize I was wrong about you," he said in German, his voice a low murmur, "I thought that in my letting you live you'd be grateful, at least." Landa's eyebrows lowered as disappointment swept over his features. He looked as if he was in the midst of scolding a child as he continued to speak. "It almost sounded to me like you were going to tell on me."

She found herself unable to reply, her jaw hanging slack as she gaped at him. His thighbone had been shattered and here he was, hiding the fact that he'd been awake during her entire conversation with the nurse.

"Don't blame me for that," she asserted, in English. "You have a huge swastika in the center of your forehead. I didn't do that to you."

"True, very true," he admitted, ignoring her attempt to steer the conversation into English, making a ticking sound with his tongue, his harsh German largely drowned out by the noise of the little fan. "Yet you could have outright _denied_ my being—"

"Why should I?" she shot back, unintentionally switching to German. "Give me one reason why I should help you in any way."

"I can think of a great one, actually," Landa replied, his smile almost giddy at her unintentional concession. "Unlike the hundreds of people I condemned—maybe even more than a thousand, come to think of it…" As he considered the number he watched her expression, which did not look satisfied in any way, and continued. "…Out of all those innocents who didn't have to die, I let _you_ live, a traitor who used her fame against her homeland."

"What about _you_?" she spat. "Betraying your entire country and taking credit for _my_ operation, killing your coworkers and friends—just to save your own skin."

"You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same." He grinned knowingly at her, his eyes following her as she took a step forward out of the path of the fan's breeze.

"I wouldn't."

"Your entire life now—keeping a baby you don't want, changing your name—consists of saving your own skin."

She crossed her arms, adamant.

"No one is getting hurt."

It was then that Landa made a strange pouty face, sticking his bottom lip out and looking up at her with suddenly sad eyes.

"I'm hurt," he murmured through gritted teeth, amusement emerging from the dark depths of his eyes. He swallowed hard but the smile still remained. "If I hadn't tracked you down, I'd never had known I had a child with the most beautiful actress in all of Germany."

"You tried to kill me and the baby! _After_ I told you it was yours! My life flashed before my eyes! If you'd held on for just one more—"

"Actually, I'm convinced that I _did_ kill you, if only for a couple of minutes," he replied in a hushed voice, watching her eyes narrow, her pupils like slits though the room was dark. "I had to work to revive you."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better—" she hissed in English, her mouth in a snarl, as she stood several feet away from his bedside, "—because it sounds to me like you are irredeemable in every way."

"And yet, here you are as proof of my mercy," he replied in English with a disarming smile. "And more importantly," he proclaimed, raising his eyebrows, "here I am, still alive, thanks to you!—in spite of my being, as you say, irredeemable."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please share your thoughts with me on this story! I had some writers' block that I overcame by reading the reviews for this story over and over! So take heed--reviews really do help!**


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